So many things in life are fragile:

nerves, eggshells, that set of Lladro figures needlepointing on 

your great aunt’s mantlepiece. And family. Family, especially. I never realized

how much until mine began breaking. Tiny fault lines appearing on the faces of my parents, 

aunts, uncles, myself. Small fissures at the hinges of mouths, the chalked, blue circumference

‘round eyes. From there – like Ozymandias – it all crumbles. Two thus far, have tumbled to the ground, with more to follow. Cracks in the foundation of the family tree, ever-widening, threatening the 

center of the two grand titans of my youth I visited this week. They struggle against the fell. 

One, gnarled roots lichened with dry rot, incapable of withstanding the gentlest breeze,

leans on the trunk of the other, stoic and strong, but tired. Oh-so tired. The detritus 

of decline feathers their nest, clutter collecting on surfaces 

like whiskers on unshaved faces, the efforts required to

clean, to clear, too much. Kleenex, coffee, yogurt

cups, cardboard

and pill boxes,

a cacophony of

alarms sounding

and resounding,

hour after hour,

chiming birdcall

begging a berry be

dropped

in a gullet,

infinitesimal

directional

notches

scored,

minutes

sliced, drop by

drop wedged

between

here and gone.

Soon and not long –

a blood-dimmed axe will fall, or tide will rise and uproot more fragile things in life, like nerves, eggshell, porcelain, and titans, strong and ancient and mortal as family

especially family.